Downburst (11 page)

“Let’s go,” Holly says, dragging me away. “I’m starving!”

Mind buzzing, I follow her to the bunkhouse. We wake Lila up for dinner, and then the three of us walk together toward the
wakenu
. As we wait in line in the dining hall, I stare at the wall across from us where the counselors have hung the wind mural. The colors continue to change, making the wind look alive.

As I scoop food onto my plate, I glimpse Bullseye sitting at a nearby table. No sign of Charity though. The only other people from my van I haven’t spotted yet are Titan and Diva
.
I think of Titan’s immense arms and solemn face, the way he took the lead on the lake. He’s definitely here. And Diva?
If Dee and Dum are here, she’s here too.

We sit down to eat, and I see Rye again. His chocolate hair is dry now, the clean locks reaching over his ears and swooping back from his forehead in a slight wave, as if he’s been absently running his hands through them. He rests his arm on the back of the chair, and I see the strong outline of his biceps. My belly dips as I remember how close we were in the lake.

Not surprisingly, he’s sitting in the middle of a crowd. Buck is on his right, and on his left is Tornado. I watch her for a few minutes. She laughs often and, at one point, reaches over to take something from Rye’s plate.

“That’s disgusting,” Lila says. I look at her and see she’s watching Tornado too. “She’s all over him. I can’t believe he’s not telling her to back off.”

“Yeah,” I say carefully. “So, where is his girlfriend?”

“At home, I guess. It’s probably not her year to come to the camp.”

“You girls coming to the dance?” A boy with a huge smile suddenly leans across the table and winks at Holly.

“Oh, I don’t know … ” Holly says, twirling pasta with her fork.

“It’ll be sick. Drums. Bonfire. We just need hot girls to show up.”

Holly says something, but I don’t pay attention because out of the corner of my eye, I see Rye and his entourage getting up from their table. They walk toward us, and I concentrate on my carrots as Rye good-humoredly punches the boy talking to Holly and then brushes past us.
Would he recognize me from the lake?
Probably not. But my eyes follow his back as he as walks out of the room.

It’s dark when Lila and I make our way to the section of forest beyond bunkhouse ten, on the outer reaches of the camp. There’s already a small crowd when we arrive, and they’ve lit a bonfire. I think about the rule I read, but I decide to stay—there are enough people that I won’t be singled out if Naira does show up.

Someone starts beating a drum, not too loudly but forceful enough to provide a strong cadence. Another drummer joins the first, the tone slightly lower. Then another drum, a higher pitch. Someone adds a rattle, and now the rhythm is more complicated, more stimulating, and the initiates begin to dance.

At first, they move individually. They roll their shoulders, swivel their hips, dip their legs. They press against the other dancers, spin away, sway next to someone else. The bonfire burns more strongly, and some of the boys peel their shirts off. Their strong torsos gleam when they step near the flames. My eyes widen. This is nothing like the dances at Lake of the Woods School.

I spot Rye, and that prickle in my chest starts up again. He grabs a girl with black hair by the hand and twirls her one way then another, raising his arm up and whipping it back down. They dance close together for a moment. Then he swings her back into the ever-growing swarm of people.

Buck appears next to him. They circle to face each other and simultaneously jump apart. Buck drops to a crouch, and Rye leaps over him, spinning as he lands. Then he somersaults into a roll, and Buck jumps over his cousin’s back. They flick their hands down and kick their legs up, laughing and bumping shoulders as they shimmy and bounce on their feet.

A crowd of girls surrounds them, and the boys play to the attention, stepping their legs out past shoulder length and bobbing low. They bring their hands out in front of them and hop with the beat. Rye raises his hands up to his head, elbows cocked, and pivots his hips suggestively. The girls squeal.

A brunette breaks out of the group and lifts her arms above her head, swaying her own hips as she moves close to Rye. A breeze whips through the trees, and suddenly the brunette vaults into the air, pirouetting into an aerial. Rye grins and rides the wind up to join her. Soon everyone is leaving the ground, some on their own, most in couples. Buck twirls two partners, one in each hand. The girls wind their arms around the boys’ necks, and they press their foreheads close before they spin apart and then coil back together.

A boy swoops down and extends a hand to Lila. She giggles and rises into the air alongside him. I watch them rock in time to the intoxicating drumbeat. Then the rhythm changes. The girls converge in a whirling mass while the boys encircle them and clap their hands to the tempo, whooping and whistling as the girls show off their moves. Next, it’s the boys’ turn. They wheel and twist and dive while the girls cheer them on.

I step back under the cover of the trees as the dancers merge into couples once more. I wish someone would ask me to dance, but it will never happen. It
can’t
happen. Because I can’t windwalk.

I can’t windwalk.

Instinctively, I bite the side of my lip, use the slight pain to keep myself in check. I wait a few long moments, memorizing everything. The pulsing drums. The pitching, spiraling dancers. The tiny sparks that run from the flames and vanish into the sable night. Like me.

My walk to the bunkhouse is slow. I play with my necklace and listen to the thrumming strain of the crickets, but my mind is in the sky. I look up at the glitter-tossed heavens,
at the stars you can only see when there are no city lights, and suddenly I’m there again—back on the Johnson’s farm. Back with the twins.

I was seven when Tom and Sue Johnson became my foster parents. The twins were two. The Johnsons volunteered to take us in, even though they had three children of their own. Tom was a farmer, and money was tight, especially when Sue had another baby a few years later, but somehow they made it work. Until a horse kicked Tom in the head and he died of a brain hemorrhage.

That was six months ago. Tom had no life insurance. The only money we got was from the government since we qualified for welfare. The community chipped in to pay for his coffin, and Sue sold most of the land and all of the livestock except for the cow and chickens. From that week on, I picked up extra shifts at the Northlake Café where I worked after school. I wasn’t making good grades anyway, so I didn’t care that I lost more homework time. But six dollars an hour doesn’t go very far when there are seven mouths to feed, and it hardly offset my share of the expenses.

When summer arrived, I worked as many hours as I could and got a second job at the gas station, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference. That’s when Sue’s mother decided to come live with us and I decided to run away. There are few things I hate more than Williams, but Grandma Mildred is one of them. Her tight lips, shrill voice, and jabbing fingers terrorized me as a child. Fortunately, she loves the twins as much as everyone else does, or I could never have left them.

Jack and Maisy.
I close my eyes as I picture their faces.

I felt bad about leaving, but I knew it was really the best thing I could do for them. My absence would mean one less mouth to feed, and since school was going to start again and I would go back to working part-time, they wouldn’t suffer from the loss of my measly income. Besides, Sue was going to start a job at the high school library, Grandma Mildred was going to contribute some of her retirement funds, and once I got set up in Winnipeg, I was going to send them part of my paycheck.

Right
…
my paycheck
. I kick at a pile of dead leaves, sending them fluttering into the darkness. Well, they’re just going to have to wait a little longer. Right now I’ve got to take care of myself.

A yellow glow falls on my head, and as I look up at my bunkhouse with its promise of a soft mattress and warm blankets, I reach for the ladder with a tiny boost of vigor. At least for the moment I have somewhere safe and comfortable to sleep.

I walk up the ramp to my bed, passing two girls leaning against the wall, talking. When I’ve rounded the bend, I hear one of the girls ask the other, “What day is your event?”

“Day Four,” is the reply. “Yours?”

“Tomorrow. I’m so nervous!”

I pause. What are they talking about? And then it clicks. I rush back down the ramp.

“Hey,” I say, trying not to talk too quickly. “Do you know where I can get a schedule?”

The girls stare at me for a moment. Then one of them raises a small gray object in her palm. “Your Quil?” she says.

“Oh, right. Thanks.” I scuttle back to my bunk, sit down on the mattress, and look at the watch on my wrist, suddenly remembering all the crazy things I saw it do in the Aerie.
How do I get it off?
I turn it over and study the slick band. There’s not even a seam.

I flip through the time, the date, all the display options, but I don’t see anything useful. I shake it. I pull on it. Finally, I push the polished surface with my finger, and a small box appears. Inside are words I can’t read, but to the right is a tiny vertical bar. I slide the bar up.

Suddenly, the watch falls off my wrist, and I catch it as it forms back into a rectangle. On the screen appears a picture of the red eagle with the tomahawk. Beneath the eagle is another box, a faded picture of a thumbprint in the background. Holding my breath, I press my thumb on the box.

The screen changes. Now it displays a series of triangular shaped images. I push the first one, and it pulls up a list of numbers, one through three hundred and three. Next to each number are two images: a telephone and a dark profile. This must allow me to call anyone in the camp.
I guess I have a phone after all.

I go back to the main screen and scan the triangles. I find one with a picture that looks like a stack of papers and push it. Now the screen shows a schedule, with a day at the top and a list of times and events. There’s a search box, so I select it and type in my number. The Quil pulls up two pages. I click on the first.

Ro 3

9:00
Raiwhapuhi

9:00
Muranga

10:00
Kohenrehi

11:00
Waerehi whawhai

I study the screen, looking for help. Then I see a small icon with a capital “E.” I click it, and, suddenly, the words transform.

Day 3

9:00 Rifle shooting

9:00 Fire building

10:00 Windracing

11:00 Foot racing

I select each event and read the numbers. My pulse trips when I choose windracing. I read it twice, but there’s no two hundred and seventy-three. I exhale fully. I did notice one hundred and fifty-eight, however. Lila’s number.

Now the fourth contest. Foot racing. I read the numbers, and there I am. Eleven o’clock at the track. My heart rate grows steadier. A foot race I can handle, but what about the other event? I go back to the second page and change the screen into English.

Day 2

9:30 Kiipooyaq

9:45 Spear throwing

10:00 Basket weaving

10:00 Fishing

I hope for the fishing, but my number’s not there. It’s not in basket weaving or spear throwing either. I read the numbers for the first event, the only one that didn’t translate.

I slump against my pillow and feel the blood drain from my cheeks. So much for lasting out the week. I now know the exact time and place where my life will end.

Tomorrow. Nine-thirty at the lake.

What in the world is a
kiipooyaq
?
I wonder yet again as I push pieces of soggy waffle around on my plate.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. I lay on my mattress, listening to the soft breathing of the girls in the bunkhouse and playing out the potential scenarios I would face the next day. Even though I knew it was ridiculous, implausible, irrational, Lila’s talk about torture had surged to the top of my mind. I tried to ignore it, telling myself I’d just get sent back to Winnipeg, but that didn’t help me feel any better, since going to Winnipeg would mean going to jail or maybe back to Williams, and that would be just as bad.

I decided to find a place to hide until my event was over. Running would have been safer, but I couldn’t leave the camp, not without supplies. Since I couldn’t do anything in the middle of the night, I slept for a few short hours, plummeting into my ever-worsening nightmares, then got up shortly before dawn and slid down the pole. I pushed open the door, stepped onto the porch, and walked right into Lila.

“Hey!” she said. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Oh, hi,” I stammered. “I, um, couldn’t sleep.”

“Nervous about your event?”

“Yeah,” I replied. Apparently,
she
had checked her Quil. “Why are you up?”

“Insomnia.” She shrugged.

“Sorry. That sucks.”

“Oh well. This way I get to see the sunrise.”

I pressed the toe of my shoe into the wood and coughed. “Well, I’m just going to go for a walk. I’ll see you—”

“A walk would be great! I’ll come too.”

So for the next hour I walked around the forest and struggled to make small talk while inside my guts roiled. Luckily, Lila did most of the talking. But she never left my side, and I couldn’t figure out how to break away.

Now here I sit in the dining hall, unable to eat a thing, counting down the minutes until I’m tortured for being a spy.

“I can’t wait to watch you,” Lila declares as she takes a big bite of toast. “You’re so brave to sign up for the
kiipooyaq
. I’m afraid I would crack my skull!” I press my fingers against my forehead and wait for her to finish eating.

When she’s done, we leave the
wakenu
and walk to the lake. I glance at the Quil on my wrist—it took me half an hour last night to figure out to put it back on—and see that it’s a quarter after nine. Fifteen minutes left of freedom.

A tall female counselor with her hair pushed back by a headband is standing by the water’s edge holding an electronic tablet. Behind her is a large wooden crate, and stretched out on the ground in front of her are several lengths of rope with fist-sized metal balls on the ends. Most of the contestants are already there, warming up.

I watch a girl pick up one of the ropes. The final third of the rope splits into three strands, and each of the strands is attached to a ball. The girl grasps the rope at the intersection of the three cords, and, twirling the metal spheres over her head, releases the contraption when her arm is extended in front of her. The balls wrap around a tree and stay put.

These must be
kiipooyaqs
. The tension in my abdomen drops down a notch. They’re like lassoes. When I was ten, Tom taught me how to rope cattle, and I got so good at it, I even competed in the county fair, winning second place in my age group. Maybe this won’t be a death sentence after all.

“I better go practice,” I say to Lila.

She nods. “
Taitai
!
”

While Lila strolls toward the seats set up for spectators, I walk over to the counselor. She holds out her tablet. I stare at it, but the display is blank.

“Help me out here,” she says, grabbing my wrist and placing my Quil on her larger device. The screen beeps, checking me in.

I pick up one of the
kiipooyaqs
and bounce it experimentally. It’s heavier than a lasso, which isn’t surprising with these metal balls. Lila was serious when she said I could break my head open.

I don’t want people watching my very first throw, so I walk along the lake’s edge until I’m out of sight of the small crowd. I think about how the girl spun the
kiipooyaq
, using her whole arm. I raise the rope and try to mimic her, but my lasso training instinctively kicks in. My elbow remains level, and my wrist rotates as part of the forward swing. I go for a front and back loop, but the metal balls don’t work quite the same way as a cattle rope.

When you throw a lasso, you want the knot to land behind the base of the cow’s right horn. If you’re just a fraction of a second late on your release, you’ll rope the cow by its neck instead. I know exactly when I need to release a lasso. I hope it’s the same for a
kiipooyaq
.

I let go of the rope, and my hand instinctively draws the slack. The problem is there’s no slack to pull, and the balls fly straight back toward my face. I duck in time to avoid losing my nose, but one of the spheres grazes my temple. I press a hand over the bump on my skull, cursing myself for my stupidity.

My head pounds, but I make myself pick the weapon up again. There are only a few minutes before the competition. I have no delusions about winning, but I need to at least learn how to throw this thing, or they’ll know something’s wrong.

I try again, this time letting go of the rope entirely. And, like magic, the weapon snags the tree in front of me.

Exhaling deeply, I retrieve the
kiipooyaq
and get in a few more tries before I hear the whistle.
Here goes nothing.
I walk back to the check-in point and join the other contestants, noting that two staff members now accompany the counselor with the headband.

“Listen up, folks,” says Headband. “We’ll release the birds. When I blow the whistle, you’re free to attack. You will be ranked according to how quickly you get your catch. Any questions?”

Ah, crap.
I didn’t give much thought to what the target was going to be, but I certainly wasn’t expecting birds. This could be very bad. Still, even if I humiliate myself, at least I’ll be able to throw the thing—I won’t get in trouble for losing.

The ten of us stand behind a line Headband projects with a red laser light. As her helpers walk over to the crate, I position the
kiipooyaq
in my hand and lick my dry lips. The man whips the door open, and a dozen geese frantically escape. For a moment, all I can see is the cloud of gray feathers they leave behind as they fly out over the lake, and then I hear the whistle.

I dash forward, holding the
kiipooyaq
at the ready. One of the geese has landed not too far from the shore, and I pick her as my target, but since she’s the closest one, I know the others will be after her too. It’s a good thing I’m fast.

In a matter of seconds, I’ve splashed into the lake. The noise frightens the goose, and she flaps her wings to take off. I focus in on her shoulders. Unlike with a lasso, I’ll only have one throw. I swing the rope forward, back, forward, back.

I release the
kiipooyaq
. The balls whirl in the air and hit the bird just as she’s pulling in her wings to get some lift. It’s a stroke of luck. The balls pin her wings to her side and yank her back into the shallow water.

Thank goodness.
I hear Lila cheering behind me, and I breathe out slowly. No one will be torturing me today. I wade out to get the goose.

I brace myself for the bird’s hissing and thrashing, but she doesn’t move, and when I get closer, I see why. Her neck is broken, one of the balls wrapped tightly around it. I blink. Cattle don’t die when you rope them unless you do something wrong, but I didn’t do anything wrong here. This weapon is meant to kill. Cleanly too
.
Much tidier than the birds I would shoot with Tom.

I pick the goose up by her feet and carry her back to shore, but none of the other contestants are there. I look back at the lake.
Oh
…

No wonder I got to this one so easily. Everyone else is in the sky.

I watch as one person moves close to a goose. When the
kiipooyaq
flies from his grasp, it strangles the creature’s neck, leaving the wings free. The bird flaps wildly, rising higher and higher into the air, but soon her wings begin to convulse and she dive bombs toward the water.

The three counselors are conversing together quietly when I reach the shore. I stand there awkwardly with my kill, waiting for the other contestants to return to land. Finally, Headband addresses us.

“It appears we’ve witnessed some unorthodox techniques this morning,” she says. Everyone’s eyes dart to me, so I find a twig on the ground and stare at it. “We’ve had to consult the rules,” she continues, “but there is no stipulation that a competitor must windwalk. Therefore, the
tooka
of our contest is number two hundred and seventy-three.”

The spectators applaud, and this time I’m certain I hear Lila hollering. I step forward to receive my medal.

“Nice form too,” Headband smiles as she takes the goose. “I’ll make sure Naira hears about that.” I place my fist over my heart, give a short bow, and return to my place in line. I wish she wouldn’t tell Naira. That won’t help me keep a low profile.

I shift my weight between my feet while the other contestants are given their scores, bracing myself for their glares. Instead, all of them smile and, afterward, shake my hand.

“You were brilliant!” Lila raves upon joining me. “What a clever idea to stay on the ground and cut out all that time chasing a bird. And your wrist action was crazy. Where did you learn to throw like that?”

“On our farm,” I say.

“You have a farm in Winnipeg?” she asks.

“Uh, no,” I backpedal, “I mean my uncle has a farm, in the country—he taught me.”

“That’s awesome,” she says before launching into a new subject.

I dodged that bullet
. But only just.

We stay at the lake to watch the next event, the fishing contest, and as the contestants assemble, I decide it’s a very good thing Aura did not sign up for this competition. There are no poles or tackle, no bait or line. Just knives and string.

After a moment, I see Rye among the participants. “Has he been here the whole time?” I ask Lila.

“Yep. He was watching your event.”

I look down at my medal, feeling my face grow warm. “Oh,” I say.

When the whistle blows, the contestants each grab a knife and run, not toward the lake, but toward the trees. With their blades, they hastily whack off a branch then lash their knives onto the ends of the sticks and race into the water. They spread out across the shore, each of them with his or her arms raised, motionless, poised to strike.

A boy with red hair shoots his arm down first, but when his spear comes back up, the tip is empty—he missed. A girl with her hair in braids and a boy with long legs hit the water at the same time. Braids pulls her spear up just before Longlegs does. Her knife has a fish, and so does his. A girl in a green shirt gets the third fish, Rye gets the fourth, and Redhead finally gets the fifth. The rest of the contestants aren’t far behind.

While I watch the presentation of awards, my eyes seek Rye’s face. He looks up, I think at me, but I turn away quickly, so I’m not sure if I imagined it or not.

“What should we do now?” Lila asks.

“I need something for this bruise on my head,” I tell her, feeling the growing lump with my fingers and consciously keeping my gaze away from the contestants.